We drift, searching among the scattered remnants of truth, beneath veils woven from yesterday's half-forgotten dreams. The ugliest truths, however, do not mask themselves; they stand naked, unadorned, beneath the weight of introspection. In this realm, shadows are not absent light, but definitions of insight, uncovering the layers of the idyllic journey we trod.
Have you not walked empty corridors, where every echo is a reminder, not a companion, where every light flicker is a prelude to a silence that speaks volumes? Here, luxuries of adventure blend uneasily with the harshness of reality, revealing not landscapes but mirror-scapes, reflections that speak in cryptic tones.
Unspooling time into the hands of the foolish wise, the revelations extend beyond horizons unseen, challenging oaths made within the sanctuary of comfort. Retreat or advance, every step resonates with the ugliest truth of human endeavor — that understanding struggles to break background static, whispering not in melodies, but in solemn refrains.
And there, you stand, fingers trailing along the edges of metaphorical windows that overlook not horizons, but Abyssus — the unfathomable depth. In these shadows, kissed but never burned by the light, lies the terrible beauty of realization.
Enter the Dimness Whispers of Old Chronicles of Shadows